


paralysis (you've got your hold on me)

by johnshuaa



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Insomnia, M/M, Some Mildly Humorous Banter, Trope: New House New Problems, kinda haunted house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23784637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnshuaa/pseuds/johnshuaa
Summary: There’s someone living in Mark’s house that he’s never met before. But that’s okay. He seems pretty nice.
Relationships: Huang Ren Jun/Mark Lee
Comments: 18
Kudos: 86
Collections: NCT Spookfest Spring Scream





	paralysis (you've got your hold on me)

**Author's Note:**

> this is what happens when you start studying how sleep works in ap psych. and then not study psych for like a week ahaha i’m going to fail.

Mark wakes up for the fourth time that night, at the most ungodly of hours, and he knows it’s going to be detrimental for his health if he keeps this up, because he most certainly can’t afford to get caught sleeping during class again. If not for his health, then for his ability to  _ afford _ this giant house that’s far too large for a single person. But it’s either this home, or some dingy apartment in the city that costs twice as much a month for rent than it does to maintain this old mansion he’s somehow inherited.

It’s a beautiful home, in all honesty, large and lavish, a little dusty in the rooms he hasn’t gotten the time to explore yet, and it still leaves Mark in awe whenever he walks down the grand staircase on his way to the kitchen for a midnight bowl of cereal. It kind of reminds him of those castles from old Disney movies, where the walls are decorated with oil paintings of bowls of fruit and portraits of dead ancestors, the chandelier hanging low in the foyer almost close enough to touch if Mark stands on his tippy toes. Every archway is intricately carved from wood, marble columns etched with vines and curls and little cherubs. And there are hidden doors, ominous dumbwaiters, and never-ending hallways that Mark doesn’t have the nerve to walk down alone.

He has four rooms that he frequents the most: the kitchen, the library, the bathroom, and his bedroom. It’s not like he needs much more than that. He found a door to the back garden, once upon a time, but that was at three am on a Thursday morning, and there were creepy chirps and ribbits that left him staring out at the black outlines of leaves and bushes and at the perfectly round moon, before sliding the door shut and sprinting up the stairs two at a time to retreat to the comforts of his own room.

That’s okay, though. One day, on some sunny summer afternoon, he’ll spend a day going through every door he can find in the house and clean everything up. Maybe spend some money renovating and then renting spaces out to guests. It’ll be a little less lonely, perhaps.

His bare feet press against the cold marble of the staircase he descends it, the coolness sending a shiver up Mark’s spine. The lights are dim on each panel of the wall, aging oil lamps that have lived well past their life expectancy, yet still pumping. (Mark appreciates that. He can’t afford to redo the electricity in a mansion as of now.) He trails his fingers down the banister as a guide down the familiar path.

A cup of warm tea is what he needs. Some nice chamomile, maybe lavender if he remembered to buy another box on his grocery run the week previous. It’ll be enough to soothe him back to sleep, and hopefully, not a fitful one.

Mark rubs at his eyes under his glasses as he turns on the lights to the kitchen, much brighter in comparison to the foyer. It stings his sleep-addled brain a little bit, but he’s already back on autopilot, heading to the cupboard to grab a water kettle, filling it up halfway. He places it haphazardly on the stovetop and clicks the fire on. Then, he leans on the island counter across the stove, the small of his back pressing into the cold edge. He crosses his arms and waits.

He could probably invest in heaters for the rooms he goes to more often, he thinks. His teeth are chattering despite the thick hoodie and wool pajama pants he sleeps in during the winter months. The ventilation is probably outdated too. He wonders if it’s even safe to live in such an old estate.

Soon enough, the kettle is whistling, snapping Mark out of his train of thoughts. He rushes over to grab a large mug and a pack of bagged tea, ripping the package open with his teeth. He drops the little baggie in and proceeds to pour the boiling water into the mug until it reaches the brim. He can already smell the calming herbal aroma that rises with the steam of his drink.

Without thinking too much, he brings the cup to his lips and takes a timid sip, only to recoil quickly, the tip of his tongue burning. He rushes to place the cup on the counter and only ends up spilling some onto the floor, barely missing his feet.

“Fuck,” he hisses to himself, biting on his tongue to try and numb the pain. It doesn’t work. He flails his hands and sticks his tongue out, as if the cold air could somehow cure the burn.

Then he hears a soft giggle that certainly did not come from him, and he freezes, his tongue still poking out of the corner of his mouth. He looks to his left and right, unable to pin exactly where he heard the sound.

His fight or flight senses kick in, despite his most rational mind telling him that it must just be something he had imagined. There’s no one around. It must just be his brain messing with him at two am. Still, his heartbeat quickens, his breathing speeds up.

Mark doesn’t know how or why he heard what he did, but he immediately grabs his tea, and with as quick of steps as possible without spilling again, he exits the kitchen. He takes another quick sip from the mug, ignoring the way it burns down his throat, so he can run up the stairs without risking the drink rushing over the side of the mug. He leaves the lights on, and when he gets to the room, he kicks the door closed with a loud thump.

He lets out a heavy breath as he places the mug on his nightstand. The adrenaline is still pumping in his blood, too quick for his liking. So much for going back to sleep.

In his three months of living here, he’s never  _ actually _ heard a voice. He thought he would. Just by the looks of the house, he had thought there’d be some kind of undead being haunting the place. He guesses the first three months have been a trial run before they come frightening him all over the place.

When his heart rate finally returns to a normal, more manageable pace, he tucks his legs into the comforter and holds his mug closer to his chest. The tea is warm now, but a little too cool for Mark’s liking. Still, he drinks it, letting the familiar scent soothe him as he intended. One glance to the clock over the doorframe opposite his bed tells him that it’s nearing three am. 

He has class at nine in the morning tomorrow, and groans at the mere thought of having to suffer through two hours of his professor lecturing about the importance of meticulously placed commas in classic literature.

On the bright side, Mark can feel the effects of the tea kicking in, his brain slowing back down to a thought a minute rather than a million a second. He turns off his night light, moving his empty mug and glasses as far away from his alarm clock as possible in case he starts slapping and breaking the wrong item in the morning. (A caution that rose from experience, of course.)

The curtains are drawn just enough for Mark to see the thin line of moonlight cast on the floor, a sharp, bright triangle on the wooden panels. He blinks a few times, and his eyes close on their own accord. The triangle moves, stretching wider, longer. There’s some rustling coming from the window.

Mark’s already deep in sleep when a voice wishes him goodnight.

  
  


“Dude, I’m like, ninety percent sure the house is haunted.”

Jaemin puts his fork down in favor of grabbing the half-finished Gatorade bottle in front of him. “That’s what I told you when we first visited.”

“Okay, but I didn’t believe you then.” Mark takes a bite from his burrito and winces. “Ugh, the lettuce is old.”

“I told you I could have picked it up for you in the morning when they had  _ fresh _ vegetables, but  _ no, I want to choose my own fillings _ ,” Jaemin raises the pitch of his voice in a mocking mimic. “Could have just texted me and you’d have greens that aren’t as limp as your dick.”

Mark ignores the second half of Jaemin’s insult and retorts, “Your class is on the opposite side of campus in the morning.”

“Matters. Cute boy there is worth the bike ride.”

“If you say so.” Mark turns back to picking at his food. “But I’m serious. You know how I wake up at weird times in the night? I was getting tea last night, or this morning, actually, and then I heard a giggle.”

“If I were some ghost haunting your house, I’d laugh at you too,” Jaemin deadpans.

“You’re no help.”

“I thought we established this when we had to do that writing assignment together, what, three years ago?” Jaemin laughs, turning back to stab at his rice with much more force than necessary. “But on a more serious note, are you sure you didn’t just imagine it?”

“I mean, maybe.” Mark pulls a face as a chunk of the burrito falls out and onto the table. “I guess I was just tired.”

“It is interesting though that this is the  _ first _ time you heard a voice,” Jaemin points out. “It’s been a couple of months already. You’d think that if something supernatural were to live there, they’d want to drive you out as soon as possible.”

“I don’t like the sound of this…”

“You could always start a GoFundMe page so you can hire some ghostbusters or something.”

Mark picks up the fallen food from the table and throws it at Jaemin. “You’re no help.”

Jaemin only dodges easily and gives him a shit-eating smile.

  
  


Mark’s exhausted by the time he gets home, stumbling to toe off his shoes at the doorway, his backpack weighing down on him as if it were made of stone. It’s hardly even eight pm, and he feels like he can just drop dead on his bed and sleep until next week.

However, his grumbling stomach tells him otherwise. Besides the poor excuse of a burrito he had earlier, he had an almond and a pistachio from his desk neighbor at his Calculus lecture, and nothing else. His feet automatically take him towards the kitchen.

He dumps his backpack down on the floor, sidestepping it to scan the cupboard for a quick meal. Well, there’s no really  _ quick meal _ available, since he doesn’t have a functioning microwave, but something he could cook up by throwing it on the stove for a couple of minutes would do. He settles on a pack of instant noodles.

As Mark makes his way to the stovetop, his socked feet step into something wet, making him shriek. 

It’s just a puddle. He remembers spilling some of his tea during his frenzy to run back to his room. With a grimace, he peels his wet sock off and then wipes the floor down with a paper towel. 

The kettle of water begins to whistle, and Mark goes to pour it over the noodles. Then, he picks up a pair of mismatched chopsticks, hooks his backpack back over his shoulder, and exits the kitchen in favor of his room.

But the moment he steps past the threshold of the kitchen, the house falls cold, Mark can feel it in the way his stomach drops, and how the breeze brushes cold against his sockless foot.

He swears he took the pot of water off the stovetop and turned off the fire. Then why is  _ the fuck _ is he hearing whistling?

Mark glances over his shoulder at the empty kitchen. Nothing. He takes a few, tentative steps towards the stairs before checking behind him, one last time.

He must be hallucinating. Maybe it was the wilted lettuce that’s doing something to his brain. The house is silent except for Mark’s ragged breathing and pounding heart. He shakes his head and laughs to himself, heading towards his room as he originally planned. 

The rest of his nightly routine goes as normal. He forgets the odd encounter in the kitchen the moment he’s settled in his bed with the bowl in his hand. He turns on the TV just to have some background noise playing as he slurps up his noodles. 

There’s exhaustion tugging on his bones, telling him to go to sleep when he pulls out a notebook and pen. Mark’s homework can’t wait, not tonight because he’s already let it wait and sit and rot in his bag for a week already. Probably not the best idea he’s had.

Plus, he knows he’ll just wake up again in a couple of hours with shaking hands and a sweaty forehead. He can’t help that, but he can use his time wisely and schedule his body so that he’d be too tired to even wake up later.

It nears two am when he’s done, and his fingers are aching from the amount of notes he’s taken. When he can barely make himself put his books back into his bag, he takes it as a sign that  _ maybe _ he should have gone to bed a bit earlier. So he pushes his books to the corner of his bed instead, and settles under his covers.

It doesn’t take too long for him to fall unconscious.

  
  


Mark knows he’s not awake because he doesn’t get the chance to wiggle his toes as he always does when he accidentally jerks awake in the middle of the night. But it  _ feels  _ like he’s awake, because he’s looking up to the same ceiling, with the thin crack going from the corner to the center, right above his head, and then tapering off as it reaches the other wall. He can feel, too, the weight of his blanket, how his shoulders still ache because his days are spent hunched over a computer for several hours straight. It all feels normal.

Except there’s a dip on the side of his bed that’s unfamiliar. He hesitates to look though. Maybe if he shut his eyes tight enough, the dream would end, and he would be awake. He wouldn’t be stuck in this  _ dream purgatory _ , or whatever it is.

With a deep inhale, he conjures enough courage to turn his head and is surprised that he doesn’t freak out when he notices another body sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to Mark.

He knows this is a dream, because when the boy turns his head, Mark can still see the moonlight shining through the window through the boy’s slightly translucent body. He flickers in and out, parts of his face disappearing like wisps of smoke. But it’s his piercing gaze that remains.

Mark can’t move. His cheek lays on the pillow, only watching the boy as the boy watches him. Then, his loose dress shirt lifts, following an invisible breeze, until Mark realizes that the window is open too, and the autumn chill is rushing into the room. His shirt billows, and his hair falls over his eyes as the wind tousles the strands.

Eventually, he finds his voice, and his arm reaches out to the boy on its own accord. Quietly, he asks, “Who are you?”

The boy doesn’t move, but he solidifies, only his hair occasionally turning clear. Or maybe it’s because the strands are silver, catching the light in the most ethereal way. He has a young face, soft and thin and pale. He reminds Mark of the fairies from old picture books from his childhood. 

And then the boy smiles. At that moment, the room warms, as if the fireplace on the wall at the base of Mark’s bed suddenly was alight, emitting the heat he so desperately craves. 

Still, the boy doesn’t say anything. He simply sits and glows, and it almost scares Mark if he didn’t find the scene too beautiful for his dream-riddled mind to comprehend. 

“Who are you?” Mark repeats, propping himself up on his elbows.

No response. Instead, the boy swings his legs onto the bed, turning his body fully towards Mark. His arm extends forward, and Mark nearly flinches when his finger brushes over Mark’s forehead, moving aside the strands of hair. 

It doesn’t feel like a human touch. It feels so light and dainty, as if a breeze were to sweep over him. He can barely register the tips of the boy’s fingers trailing down the side of his face, then to his chin.

“Sleep, Mark,” he whispers. 

As if on cue, Mark’s eyes blink shut, pulled together by a drowsiness that was not there a moment ago. His head falls back onto the pillow, unable to resist the strong pull that his exhaustion has a hold of now. But he lets it, because it’s oh so warm all of a sudden.

He doesn’t jerk awake at the crack of dawn. Instead, he dreams of a wisp of a boy sitting by his window as the sun rises, glowing golden. 

  
  


Mark doesn’t get recurring dreams.

On one hand, he doesn’t sleep long enough to dream properly, anyways, and if he does, he hardly remembers them. But on the other hand, on nights when he’s so exhausted that he sleeps through an entire morning, barely waking up in time to attend class, he has these incomprehensible dreams that he can’t shake off his mind for the rest of the day. Nevertheless, once he dreams it, it never comes back. It’s left forgotten in some obscure corner of his memory.

So when he sees the boy again just a few nights after, Mark thinks he’s either gone insane or the boy is real. And if the boy is real, then that would also feed into the whole,  _ Mark is going crazy  _ narrative, anyways.

This time, the boy is sitting on the windowsill, hugging a knee as he glances outside. Mark knows the view there well; since his room is on the second floor, he can view the front yard in its entirety, as well as the way it leads to the main road. He can’t afford to hire a gardener to keep the plants growing healthily. The bushes and trees are honestly just waiting to die out there.

Mark doesn’t think he’ll get an answer if he asks the boy for his name again. He looks lost in his thoughts, so Mark settles with just watching him. 

He doesn’t quite know how much time passes that he’s awake, simply admiring the way the light catches and shifts through the boy’s silver hair. It must be hours, because he can feel exhaustion pulling at his bones and his conscience, telling him to go back to sleep before he’s obligated to wake up again. But it’s  _ ethereal _ , this sight, and he doesn’t want to blink in case he misses a moment in which his silver hair flashes white when it reflects the moonlight.

“You should sleep, Mark.”

Somehow, he doesn’t flinch. Somehow, he continues to look at his window as the boy speaks to him properly, for the first time while expecting an answer. Mark laces his fingers over his stomach.

“It’s getting late into the night. It’s not good for you.”

The boy turns his neck to look at Mark. Their eyes meet, and Mark sees a brilliant shade of blue, like electricity in his eyes, something unnatural but beautiful nonetheless. It’s gone too quickly, the color, because then the light shifts again and his face is swallowed by the dark.

“Who are you?” Mark croaks out. His voice is cracked from not speaking all night.

“It’s not time for you to know yet.” Mark can’t see his eyes, but he can see his smile, a serene, small smile. “It will come. You will know when it will.”

“But why—”

“Sleep, Mark.”

The boy moves his legs so that he can step off the windowsill and approach Mark. And like the first night, he brushes his fingers lightly over Mark’s face, and immediately, Mark is losing touch with reality, his room blurring away into black. He barely registers it before he falls back into his slumber, but he remembers it nonetheless: the soft feeling of a pair of lips against his forehead.

  
  


Every night there is something new. Mark is beginning to think it’s not a dream anymore, because it feels so real. He feels every touch, every breeze, how the light shifts in such a realistic manner that it can’t be his dreams. He’s incapable of dreaming in such detail, he knows this much.

His name is Renjun. The boy didn’t have to tell him, the name just came to mind on one of the night visits. Perhaps Mark knew him in his past life and it made him recall the name and the face. Renjun is familiar. And in turn, Renjun is safe. 

Mark thinks that he’s been sleeping far better than he has ever in the last year or so. No more are the midnight visits to the kitchen in search of some sort of warm tea that would alleviate the self-diagnosed insomnia. Instead, he finds comfort in the boy that appears at his window, who joins his night time endeavors more frequently as the weeks pass. It’s almost like Mark meets him every night, now. 

He doesn’t know how. It’s as if every time he sees Renjun, in the same billowing white shirt and silver hair, he learns something new about him without having to be told. 

Renjun likes the night and the moon. He loves stargazing. He spends most of his time reading, especially classics bound in old leather. Something about the weight of the book that’s comforting, some voice supplies in Mark’s head. It’s the same voice that guides him through one of the hallways Mark has never explored one day after classes, in search of a perfect novel to leave by his side for Renjun later.

He didn’t know he had a library so grand and filled, to the point that if he were to try to even bring a book into the room, that the dam would just burst into a flood of a hundred and thousand paper pages. He plucks one off the nearest shelf to the entrance, a maroon book with stripes of brown on its bind. 

When he goes to bed that night, he leaves it on the windowsill. He doesn’t wake up in the middle of the night. Instead, he wakes up when the sun is reaching its apex warm and inviting as it shines through the window on the book with a thin metal bookmark wedged a quarter of the way in.

And when Mark wakes up, he learns that Renjun likes cuddling, a fact that pops up in his brain out of nowhere as he walks downstairs to make himself brunch.

  
  


“Mark, you seem off.”

Jeno has joined them for lunch too, along with a boy named Donghyuck who shares an anthropology class with Jeno and Jaemin earlier in the week. Mark had asked why any of them would take anthropology when Jeno was a computer science major, Jaemin an engineer, and from Donghyuck’s introduction, a political science major. They had shrugged, and then it was their turn to order, and the conversation ended just like that.

“I’m fine,” Mark says, biting into his chicken to avoid any further explanation.

Jaemin just stares at him and waits for him to swallow.

“I’m serious.”

“You’re not waking up in the middle of the night again, are you?” Jeno has concern knitted into his eyebrows.

Mark drops his fork and reaches over to try to smooth down his forehead. “You’re gonna get premature wrinkles if you do that.”

“Okay, that part’s already hereditary, no need to remind me.” Jeno purses his lips. “I don’t think living alone helps with the whole insomnia thing.”

“It’s not insomnia if it’s self-diagnosed,” Mark replies. He fits another spoonful of broccoli into his mouth. “And can you notice that my eyebags are lighter today? I feel like I’ve been sleeping better than I have in weeks.”

“Mark, I don’t know you very well, but I think you should see a doctor. Or at least the campus therapist,” Donghyuck says. That’s when Mark notices that none of his friends have opened their lunches yet.

“I swear I’m alright.” Suddenly, Mark is self-conscious about how loud he’s chewing. “Can you guys start eating? I feel very awkward.”

Jaemin’s mouth opens and closes like a goldfish. Then, he reaches forward to unwrap his sandwich. The others follow suit.

“I worry for you, now that you live in that house. It looks haunted.”

“Well, I told Jaemin that last week and he didn’t give a shit.”

“I didn’t think it was serious!”

“Well, it isn’t okay?” Mark’s sudden outburst stuns the group into silence. “I… I swear, I’m healthy and I’m fine. I’m sleeping as much as a college student can leading up to midterms.”

“That’s not a lot,” Donghyuck mutters under his breath.

“I’m fine,” Mark repeats before he’s taking another bite of his food. He repeats it one more time to himself. Reassurance.

  
  


Renjun appears during the day for the first time when Mark gets home that afternoon. He had spent a shorter period of time in the library than usual and stopped by the nearest boba shop on the way home. He expected another lonely night of studying in his room into the twilight hours.

But it seems that his plans are going out the window because when he unlocks the door, he looks to the grand staircase to find Renjun sitting halfway up to the second floor, knees pressed together as he flips to the next page of his novel. 

Mark blinks a couple times to make sure it’s not a trick of the light. He takes a sip of his boba as he watches Renjun flip the page again, eyes scanning quickly across the page.

“Renjun?”

His head snaps up, like a deer caught in headlights. Then he smiles, quickly wedging a bookmark into the book and shutting it. He hops down the stairs, but when he gets to the final step, he hesitates. He glances at the marble, then up at Mark again.

“I didn’t think I would see you anywhere outside of my room. Or during the day.” Mark must be going insane. For all he knew, Renjun was fiction, a figment of his imagination, a hallucination from his dreams. But he’s very much real in front of him now, under the sun, where he could burn and shrivel away into the depths of Mark’s brain, but he doesn’t. Renjun is real.

“Mark.” His silver hair almost goes a golden blonde from the sun. He doesn’t step off the stairs.

Instead, Mark makes his way to Renjun, shrugging his backpack off his shoulder and tossing it aside. Renjun’s just a hint taller than him while on the step.

“I feel like I’ve known you for a million years,” Mark says, and he hardly realizes that his voice is lower, quieter now. “Why do I think like that?”

That’s more of a mutter to himself, but Renjun reaches forward tentatively, before pinching a strand of Mark’s hair and tucking it behind his ear, his fingertips brushing against the shell of his ear. 

“Tell me, what do you know?” Renjun says. His hand lingers on the nape of Mark’s neck. 

“You like the stars. You like reading.” Another thing pops up in Mark’s mind. “You’ve never tried boba before.”

Renjun giggles when Mark brings the plastic cup up to Renjun’s face as an offering. “How’d you guess?”

“Just a hunch.” Mark doesn’t say that the other facts were also  _ just a hunch _ .

Renjun’s mouth closes around the straw, and his eyes grow wider when he gets a taste of the drink. He chews experimentally on the tapioca pearls. “This is an odd delicacy.”

“But it’s good?”

Renjun laughs and nods. “It is.”

Mark could be content just looking at Renjun for the rest of his life. That would be a nice way to pass his time. Perch his chin on his palm and stare at him for hours on end.

But then Mark blinks, and blinks again, his mouth falling open. He cocks his head, furrowing his eyebrows.

There’s something nagging at him. It tells him that he’s not safe, and that something is wrong. There shouldn’t be. It’s just Renjun and him in the house, after all.

“Where do I know you from?” he asks, nonetheless.

“I’m your housemate.” Renjun has an unwavering, pretty smile that distracts Mark. “I’ve been here as long as you have.”

“Oh.” Mark blinks a few times. Memories flood in as he tries to recall meeting Renjun the first time. Something feels off, but he trusts those memories. Of him and Renjun glancing into the house the day they moved in. Of Renjun choosing the bedroom next to his. Mark swears there’s never been a door so close to the one leading to his room, but apparently there is. He doesn’t question it. “Right.”

Renjun’s smile grows bigger. 

“How come I only see you at night, then?”

“It’s the only time you’re home and free,” Renjun replies. “You’re too busy for me to visit.”

“Oh. Sorry,” Mark says sheepishly, and on reflex, his hand goes to scratch at the nape of his neck. “Travelling time is horrible from here. And there’s always work to do. College is rough.”

“I’m sure it is,” Renjun hums. He tugs on Mark’s hand, and takes a step backward, up the stairs.

Mark thinks his conscience is going haywire, because every atom in him tells him not to follow Renjun. Everything tells him that the boy in front of him is not real, and that his words are lies meant to lure Mark in. 

There’s only one way to prove that, Mark supposes, and lets Renjun lead him up to his room. True to his word, there’s a door by Mark’s bedroom that seems both familiar and unfamiliar.

“We should explore the house more, Mark,” Renjun says, pulling him further down the hallways, past the boundaries Mark had set for himself when he first moved in. There’s a set of french doors at the end that Mark can’t say he’s noticed before.

Renjun turns back to smile at Mark every few steps. When they reach the door, Renjun opens them, and they swing out to let in a warm breeze that sweeps through Renjun’s hair and shirt.

There are these sparkles in Renjun’s eyes, Mark has noticed as they stepped out onto the balcony. They’re not too prominent, but if he looks long enough, he can see the way the thin dots glimmer, like stars. 

“I bet you’ve never been here,” Renjun says. He leans onto the balcony railing that looks too precarious and too old. Mark finds comfort leaning against the wall of the house instead, content in watching how the sun shines on Renjun’s skin, turning him gold instead of the usual silver sheen Mark knows him in. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we explore together?”

Mark finds himself nodding without properly registering Renjun’s words.

“It’s a lovely home. There’s so much more to find here. It’ll be fun.”

Mark doesn’t think he has seen anything as beautiful as the way orange-pink fades into purple-blue on Renjun’s skin like he’s a canvas for the sun’s paintbrush to decorate.

  
  


With Mark’s school schedule completely filled, he can’t take the time to explore with Renjun just yet. So they compromise. Renjun spends his days poking through the library while Mark is at his classes and mulling around with his friends, and then they meet in Mark’s room at night.

It becomes routine, one that Mark is quite fond of. He likes the idea of going home to find Renjun invested in a new novel each day. It’s domestic and sweet and makes him feel like gummy.

And Renjun likes to tuck Mark in every night, despite it being the early hours of the morning by the time Mark is done with all of his work. It’s so dark outside that it looks bright, and Renjun will pull Mark’s covers up to his chin and bid him goodnight with a kiss on his forehead. 

Somehow, that’s given Mark some of the best sleep he’s had a long time. He doesn’t wake up in the middle of the night anymore. When he readies himself in the morning, he notices the way his eyebags become less and less prominent on his skin.

Every day, he wakes up and knows something new about Renjun, as always. 

Renjun likes warm tea, just like Mark. He likes to wrap himself in ten layers of blankets by the fireplace when it’s cold outside. He likes horseback riding and rowboat trips across the lake during the summer. 

There’s a lake not far from here, Mark recalls. He’s never visited, but he’s passed by a couple of times on his way to the airport to fly to visit his parents during summer break.

It’s a little peculiar, the way Renjun holds himself, too. He’s a bit too prim and proper. He likes to drink his tea from a teacup and saucer, and his pinky extends as he lifts the cup to his lips. It might just be habit, Mark reasons.

And the roommate story doesn’t quite hold up. Sometimes, on his way home from class, he’ll sit in his own stupor, wondering how he doesn’t ever remember meeting Renjun, settling a living arrangement with him before they moved into his grandmother’s old home. Everything seems a little off, and Mark can’t tell why. Plus, he’s too tired to figure it out.

He likes having Renjun’s warmth by his side as he makes his way through his second research paper this week, anyways.

Still, it nags at him unconsciously, like his brain is trying to tell him to pay attention to something that needs clearer thought. But he’s never been the one to think too much about one thing for too long, anyways. Like how after he inherited the mansion, he was packing up to move in just two days later.

Maybe a part of him is trying to tell him that Renjun couldn’t be real. He’s too perfect for a person like Mark. Renjun’s a pair of dainty butterfly wings, and Mark is just grubby little fingers trying to hold something that will disintegrate the moment he touches it.

So he tries not to think about it. He relishes in the way Renjun likes to rest his head on Mark’s shoulder as he watches the TV playing reruns of some old show that Mark could care less about instead.

  
  


The familiar ringtone makes Mark groan in annoyance, because for some reason, Jaemin always knew exactly when to call Mark when it’s the absolute worst time to call. The number of times his phone rang while he was in the bathroom or in the shower would be too many to count on his fingers and toes combined.

He picks up anyway. Jaemin is a worrywart that won’t let him live if he doesn’t pick up by the fourth ring.

“Hey, do you wanna go watch a movie on Saturday? I feel like I haven’t seen you in days.”

Mark wedges his phone between his cheek and shoulder so he can pick up both plates at once. He’d hate to have to walk all the way downstairs again. His mother didn’t raise him as a second-trip child, after all.

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” Mark says, careful to make sure that he has his balance before he’s walking out of the kitchen, using an elbow to switch off the lights. “It’s been a busy couple of weeks.”

“Especially with midterms coming up.” Jaemin groans, which then becomes muffled as if he smashed his face into his pillows, which wouldn’t be uncharacteristic of him. “Okay. So let’s go out before I have to actually start studying.”

“Isn’t your first midterm next week though?”

“What makes you think I’m gonna study anything until the night before? That’s what those ten-hour review videos are for.”

Mark laughs, which trails off as he begins his ascent up the stairs. He can feel the phone slipping from its spot in the crook of his neck, so he squeezes his shoulder closer to his cheek. It makes his muscles tick.

“So. Are you up for it? I need like… some sort of horror film. Isn’t there that new one that just came out not long ago?”

Mark hums as he steps onto the second-floor landing. The most difficult part was done.

“Mid… Midsummer… Midsommar?” Jaemin says. “Yeah, that one. Let’s go watch that.”

“Uhm, actually…” Mark uses an elbow to press down on the doorknob, and pushes his back against the door to open it. He sighs in relief when he finally gets to place the two plates down on the bedside table. He takes his phone out to hold, stretching out the sore part of his neck. “I made plans with my roommate already this Saturday. We can do Sunday if they have the movie playing. Seems kinda sacrilegious to show horror movies on Sundays though…”

When there’s no immediate response, Mark frowns. He glances up to see Renjun curled up in the bed with his knees bent to his chest, acting as a bookstand for the novel he’s been invested in for the past three days.

“Jaemin? Hello?”

“Mark…” 

Mark can practically feel the concern bleeding through the phone, from his dorm room so many miles away to him. He laughs a little awkwardly. “What?”

“Mark, you don’t have a roommate.”

  
  


Exams go just fine. He studies late into the night with Renjun curled up against his shoulder, nursing a warm cup of tea that he offers to Mark whenever he nears dozing off while highlighting another packet of notes.

He thinks it’s the best he’s done on any tests since he moved to the new house. The dorm had forced him to be productive, especially his old roommate who was far more of a studious student than he was. Jeno’s constant isolation in his room with a textbook in his lap made Mark so guilty that he would join him on the bed, his own textbook spread open on his thighs. That didn’t mean he would properly study, though.

Something about Renjun is so calming, a tranquil energy that puts a halt on Mark’s chaotic life, to slow him down to a speed he can properly function at. 

Now that his tests are over, he can relax, sleep earlier and take a moment to rest rather than rush through another stack of work.

The house feels bigger and smaller at the same time with the two of them there. Mark knows there are parts of the estate that he’s yet to visit, and it becomes an Easter egg hunt. Now that Mark isn’t alone, the house feels like a real home. The walls are tall and loom over him, but they loom over him to keep him safe, not to scare him. 

“You’re done with exams, right?” Renjun asks, excited. Mark has barely taken his shoes off.

“All finished. I’m free for the next ten days.”

“That’s wonderful to hear.” 

Renjun never steps down to the first floor. When he greets Mark, it’s always on the second step, as close as he can get to the front door. 

Mark makes his way to Renjun, and he wraps his arms around Renjun’s waist, pulling him into a tight embrace. Mark nuzzles his nose into the crook of Renjun’s neck. He doesn’t smell like anything, but imagines that he would smell like chamomile.

Renjun’s hands go to tug and play with Mark’s hair. “Was it that bad?”

“No, I’m just tired.” Mark tries to dig himself deeper into Renjun’s neck to no avail.

“It’s hardly five. You need dinner.”

“I’d rather take a nap.”

Renjun sighs. He holds Mark in his arms for a few moments longer before drawing away. “Let’s get you to bed then.”

  
  


When Mark wakes up, it’s already midnight. He might have royally fucked his sleep schedule just by this nap, but that thought goes down the drain when he finds Renjun by his side, knees knocking against his, gentle breaths fanning across Mark’s neck. His arm is draped across Mark’s hip. 

He stares at Renjun’s sleeping figure for a moment. Then, his stomach begins to grumble, which stirs Renjun from his slumber.

“There’s food on the table,” Renjun says groggily, a hand going up to rub at his eyes. “Might be cold, though.”

“Thank you,” Mark murmurs. He grabs onto Renjun’s wrist, and brings the hand to his cheek instead. Renjun doesn’t open his eyes. He lays his palm flat against Mark’s face, a thumb running over Mark’s cheekbone. He smiles.

Mark thinks he can live this life forever, if he could.

  
  


They explore, just like they promised each other.

Mark usually would prefer to take short naps through the day, wake up to scroll through his phone for a few hours, before drifting back to sleep during his breaks, when obligations are obliterated, just for a week. But he could get used to this, holding Renjun’s hand and sprinting down the halls in search of another door and pathway to venture down.

There’s another library, hidden around the corner of a hallway extending from the living room. They find a set of stairs behind another door, leading down into a pitch-black that neither of them has the courage to enter. They discover a game room, with a musty billiards table in the middle. 

They visit the back gardens, standing on the patio and looking out at the horizon over the rows of unkempt bushes and wilting flowers. Mark feels a little guilty for never looking after the plants, but he’s sure he would have been the one to kill them if he even set foot on the soil. Better let nature do its duty.

Mark’s fingers are intertwined in Renjun’s now, fitting like a lock and key. When he peeks out of the corner of his eyes, he swears there’s a dust of pink on Renjun’s cheek that isn’t from the pink cast across the skies. 

It makes his chest warm, his heart clench. A smile is on his mouth before he has the chance to control it. 

He’s a type of beauty that could rival the angels.

It’s hardly been two weeks, Mark thinks. Why does he feel like he’s known Renjun for years?

_ Oh.  _

“Renjun…” Mark doesn’t know when he’s realized this, but perhaps it’s the old house and its aging beauty that he’s never quite gotten the full taste of until today, with Renjun’s soft hands enclosed in his, that he realizes this.

It’s solidified like a stone sinking in water when Renjun stares at him with those soft eyes and the soft smile that was his first greeting towards Mark that first night. Mark is so irrevocably in love that he feels a dopey grin make its way to his own face on its own accord.

Renjun’s mouth is slightly open, waiting for whatever it is Mark is going to say. He looks too perfect to be real. 

Mark’s thumb brushes over the back of Renjun’s hand, a delicate smooth hand that shouldn’t be holding Mark’s rough skin. Every little moment, each touch and each glance, they all send tingles through Mark’s entire body. 

He thinks he knows what this is. He sees the glittering of Renjun’s eyes, like there are stars encapsulated in his soul. Mark wants the stars to burn forever, just so he can see the light that grasps Renjun so tightly.

“Yes?” 

Mark’s throat goes dry, and he thinks he’s holding Renjun’s hand a little too tight.

It’s now or never. 

“I think I’m in love with you.”

The stars burn on. They don’t flicker, they don’t hold the excitement and surprise Mark had wished to see. They burn with the same intensity, like he knew Mark’s revelation before he did.

Renjun’s smile softens at the corners, and then purses. Then his eyes fall to the ground when he lets out a sigh. The smile is gone.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

  
  


Renjun’s hand is in Mark’s the entire time. He has to tug on his arm whenever he gets sidetracked by the car rushing by them on the road, or by a rustle in the leaves on the side of the street. They walk along the sidewalk until there’s no sidewalk left, and they teeter between the asphalt of the street and the grass. Renjun’s hand is warm around Mark’s.

The sun grows dimmer as they walk, and dusk rolls in, the sky turning navy, like the ocean. Still, Mark looks far enough, he can see the orange in the horizon fighting to stay afloat, only to be trampled by the blue and purple. The stars begin to blink.

Finally, Renjun leads the two of them off the main road and along a dirt trail. It might be dangerous to be walking in such a secluded area when it’s already dark, but Mark has to trust Renjun. He has to.

It’s when the grass grows rampant, tall, brushing against his bare calves, poking at the spots exposed by his shorts, that Mark takes a moment to properly observe where they are.

There are stones, carved stones, erect in the dirt, some taller and bigger and grander than others. Others are simply flat plaques half-buried in the ground. The grass grows in every direction it can to reach the sun that never properly casts its rays on this side of the land.

Mark’s breath catches in his throat as Renjun pulls him to a stop in front of a stone in one of the many rows lined up along the cemetery.

His heart is beating so erratically that it feels like it isn’t even in his chest, like it’s bouncing from one side of his body to the other, to catch at his throat only to press up against his lungs so that he couldn’t breathe. His toes are tingling. He’s awake and this isn’t a dream.

Renjun can’t be a dream. He’s real. His hands are in Mark’s right now, and that’s where it should be.

But Mark can’t deny what his eyes convey. Renjun’s name carved in careful lettering across the tombstone, his year of birth and year of death right underneath. The grave is dirty, without a groundskeeper constantly checking on it.

Mark thinks he’s about to puke when he reads over the name and the years, over and over again. 

“That’s not you,” Mark says, but he doesn’t believe it himself. “That’s not you.”

“It is, Mark.” Renjun’s hand goes to hold Mark’s arm instead. “Under that dirt, six feet below our feet, is me.”

“Impossible,” Mark breathes. It’s taken away when Renjun presses a warm kiss to his lips to counter the fact that he is trying to prove. “Renjun, you can’t kiss me and then tell me you’re…”

“Can’t you feel it? Can’t you feel that it’s different?” Renjun feels so small against Mark’s body, thin hands around Mark’s waist. “I’m just a spirit tied to the house. That’s all I can ever be.”

“I  _ can’t _ .” Mark thinks he’s going to start crying. “You feel real to me.”

This time, their kiss is tainted by incredulity and uncertainty, and he thinks he’s imagining it, but Renjun has his lips pressed to his in a chaste kiss that feels like air brushing against him. This time, he thinks there’s no warmth, but he still can sense Renjun tilting his chin to press closer.

“I’ve left home for too long.” Renjun pulls away, just slightly. He sighs, but only the noise is audible, and Mark doesn’t feel the breath against his collarbone like he should. “My time is limited.”

“Tell me,” Mark chokes on his words halfway. “Tell me if you’re real. Please.”

Renjun looks up, and the stars flicker both above them and in Renjun’s eyes. Stars explode, and stars die. Mark grasps Renjun’s shirt as tight as he can.

Another kiss. Each one is lighter than the previous. A tornado becomes a tumbling wind that becomes a breeze until there’s no air at all. 

Mark keeps his eyes closed, but he can just barely feel Renjun shaking his head. 

“The stone doesn’t lie, Mark. I’m sorry.”

When Mark opens his eyes, Renjun is silver, like his hair, like the moonlight passing through his body to the ground, where there’s the shadow of a lonely figure. The stars have burned for too long. They die with one last bright explosion.

Renjun’s hand goes to Mark’s cheek, and he tries so desperately to imagine that it’s a warm hand with thin fingers on his skin.

“I love you too, Mark.”

Just a wavering of the moonlight, and Mark sees nothing. He shuts his eyes. He can recall holding Renjun’s hand, remember him stroking the hair away from his eyes, still barely feel the kiss on his lips. But what does he look like? What does he enjoy? Why are there stars in Mark’s vision?

When he opens his eyes, Mark wonders why he’s alone in a graveyard at night. 

  
  


Mark has to close his eyes to fully ground himself before he looks up to see the familiar silver hair and fairy-like features. He swears he knows the boy from somewhere, but it’s difficult to recall. 

The boy sits two rows down from him in the lecture hall, and he puts his bag down in front of him, pulling out his materials. Mark bites his lip. He  _ knows _ who that is, he’s sure, but nothing comes to mind.

The class goes by in a blur, and Mark catches up to him on the way out with a crooked smile and an extended hand.

His name is Renjun. He likes to read classics, and wrap himself in too many blankets, and cuddling to keep warm. He likes to drink chamomile tea with a teacup instead of a mug. His eyes shine like the stars.

Mark thinks he knows him from somewhere, but he’s not quite sure why. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/johnshuaa)  
> [curious cat](https://curiouscat.me/johnshuaa)


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